


But I Still Think That We're In Love

by angelgazing



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had bought that coffee pot seven months ago because it was on sale and he had no idea that it would turn out to be a traitorous life-ruining machine of adultery and pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I Still Think That We're In Love

On the list of things that Eames adamantly disliked, mornings easily ranked in the top five.

It wasn't just the _morning_ of it, though that did play a big part. He'd decided to take up a life of crime thinking that meant he'd be allowed a lie-in whenever he pleased. Either mind crime didn't follow these rules, or--like many a rock star before him--he had been sadly and tragically misled.

But even that, even the beeping that started at half past six every morning, could not darken his day the way the scene in his kitchen could. No, no, because while there were any number of things Eames could list that were fair and just about the world--and Eames could, because he liked lists, he found them soothing--this just made Eames want to hold his breath until the world decided to stop withholding all that was so clearly due to him.

The world, and _Arthur_.

"It's _early_ ," Eames said, when he'd stumbled over his own feet, the kitchen rug, and the braces Arthur'd worn the day before and finally made it into the tiny, tiny kitchen, bruised and only mostly intact. If it sounded like he was whinging, that was only because he found it difficult to fully express the true level of his distaste when the sun had barely even begun to rise.

Arthur--wearing boxer briefs, a t-shirt of Eames' demanding sexual favors in honor of his heritage, and one dress sock--gave a quiet little _hmm_ of agreement, and absolutely did not turn to properly acknowledge Eames. He held on tightly to an oversized mug with a picture of sleeping kittens curled together on the side. Eames had gotten it solely to torment him, back in the days before he'd realized the true depth of Arthur's addictions to both coffee and fluffy animal memorabilia.

Arthur, because he was a cruel, cruel man who wanted Eames to suffer, scratched at his belly, and eyed the slow drip of the coffee pot as though he would happily service it and any other number of less-than-upstanding gentlemen, if only it would be willing to pay the right price. Eames was not responsible for the translation of this look, because Eames' higher brain function, at this point in the day leveled off at somewhere around 'nnngh' and 'Arthur' and 'bed warm.'

He knew what this expression was, because Arthur peeled one hand away from his mug, and stroked his fingers lovingly down the side of the coffee pot, smacked his lips open, and said--nay, _cooed_ , "Oh, beautiful, I would do anything, _anything_ for you, if you'd just give me the coffee."

Eames made a noise that, admittedly, sounded not unlike he had been mortally wounded, and tripped another half a step to bury his face none-too-gently into the curve of Arthur's neck. When Arthur only grunted, and continued to stroke the machine, Eames had no choice but to slide a hand under his t-shirt to rest on Arthur's warm belly. "'S'terrible stuff," Eames yawned against Arthur's sleep-warmed skin.

"Shhh," Arthur said soothingly, _to the coffee pot_ , still petting it softly, "it's okay, he doesn't mean that."

Eames had bought that coffee pot seven months ago because it was on sale and he had no idea that it would turn out to be a traitorous life-ruining machine of adultery and pain. He glared at it as well as he could when his eyes didn't really want to open all the way, and dug his chin into Arthur's shoulder in retaliation. "I did," he mutters, "I totally meant every word of it."

He didn't want to give any other in where he didn't have to, so he kept his hand on Arthur's belly, and reached across with the other to wrap around Arthur's wrist and pull his hand down to lace with Eames' fingers. Because trust was obviously an obsolete concept, he made sure to hold Arthur's fingers there with both hands. And maybe pulled him back an inch or two while Arthur was distracted by trying to pull up his sock with the toes of the other foot.

It was a shallow victory, but as far as Arthur is concerned, Eames had long ago learned to take those and run.

His shirt was too big on Arthur, so he used his cheek to drag the collar away from Arthur's neck, and Arthur laughed and shuddered and tightened his grip because for all he bitched about Eames' stubble and morning breath and _extreme dislike for coffee_ , Arthur's weaknesses were shockingly well documented. He laughed, and held on when Arthur tried to twist away, and blew a raspberry against the skin he'd exposed.

Arthur laughed again, too bright and too loud for so early in the morning. He kicked Eames in the shin, but Eames was at least 77% sure that it was actually an accident. "You're such an asshole," Arthur said, setting down his cereal-bowl sized coffee cup to reach back and tug on Eames' hair. "You're an asshole, and this is why I'm going to leave you for Mr. Coffee." He left his hand in Eames' hair like he'd forgotten it was there.

"Nonsense," he said, hiding his nose in the loose curls just behind Arthur's ear. "Absolute nonsense, I could wake you so much better, darling." He pressed a kiss to the lobe of Arthur's ear, because it was there and all wagging of his eyebrows would be lost to the dull reflection of his most hated enemy. He did it again, just because.

Arthur, because he would be heartless if he didn't have such a firm grip on Eames', made the tiniest noise of doubt in the back of his throat. Eames decided to pretend there was space between them so he could pull Arthur even closer by their hands, still linked low on Arthur's belly.

"If you had your way," Arthur said, slow and sleepy again, some minutes later when Eames had finally dared to release his death grip enough to run his fingernails in circles over the sharp jut of Arthur's hipbone. "If you had your way," he repeated, leaning just a little more into Eames, "we'd stay in bed half the day."

"Don't be ridiculous." Eames dropped a kiss to Arthur's shoulder. "If I had my way you would never get out of bed."

"This is why coffee is so much better for me," he sighed, turning his face to nuzzle at Eames' cheek, even though the coffee finally stopped brewing. "It wants me to get out in the world."

Eames believed in rewarding good behavior, so he poured Arthur's coffee with his left hand, while Arthur hummed a Disney tune against Eames' jaw. "It's not your getting out in the world I object to," he said, squeezing Arthur once more before letting him go. As he'd always been told you were supposed to, with true loves. "It's your getting into pants that gives me pause."

"Well," Arthur said, "I could try leaving the house without those. Do you think anyone would notice?" He took a sip of his beloved coffee, finally, and made a noise Eames' had once dedicated hours to pulling out of him, easy as could be, like he wasn't _stabbing Eames in the heart_.

Eames pawed meekly at Arthur's thigh. "I hate mornings, Arthur, I hate them."

Arthur leaned back against the counter, both hands wrapped around his horrible kitten mug and his eyelashes fucking _fluttering_ as he took another drink. "I love coffee," he replied, callously.

Eames eyed the coffee pot balefully, and tried to think of the best way to rid himself of the vile beast. He was going to need to make a list.


End file.
